


Pittance

by Dienaziscum



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dienaziscum/pseuds/Dienaziscum
Summary: The Black Widow has failed a mission. The Winter Soldier, as her trainer and mentor, follows up with her after she receives punishment from the Red Room's high command.





	Pittance

Romanova has been in confinement for three days when the soldier regains access to the holding facility. She is his trainee, but the test mission on which she’d been deployed had been a solo op, hers alone to complete or to fail.

She had failed. Or: high command reported the mission as a failure.

High command’s definition of mission success does not always align with the soldier’s own--an observation he has not been motivated to share. Such assessments, unrequested, don’t generally improve the soldier’s circumstances or those of his trainees.

Per high command, Romanova’s failure indicates a failure in the soldier’s mentorship by default. His authority to mete out her punishment had thus been revoked. This is reasonable; high command cannot trust him to correct that which he had not properly trained in the first place.

He had submitted to his own correction without protest. It had been severe enough to suggest that the test mission had, in fact, been a live op. But for all its severity, he is not foolish enough to suspect that high command has finished punishing him, or Romanova, yet. They are purposefully inconsistent in their correctional timelines. Predictability breeds complacency and insolence.

Entering her cell is its own sort of punishment for the both of them. He must see her like this; she must be seen like this.   
  
Like _this._

She doesn’t rise to stand at attention, nor even to defend herself. Motionless save for the rise and fall of her ribs, she lies naked on her side. Attuned as she is to the finest details that might identify a target, she will long since have recognized his approaching footsteps and the faint twang of tension in the wires running through his cybernetic arm.   
  
Even so, she doesn’t stir. Never before has she hesitated to acknowledge his presence.

“Get up, Widow,” he orders.

“How do you want me?” she asks while pushing herself onto her knees. She moves with a begrudging tentativeness that makes the soldier’s skin crawl.

Thick fluid leaks from between her thighs, long translucent tendrils of it gleaming whitish in the low light.

His arm is making a great deal of noise. The plates clatter and shift, servos whirring as he makes a tight fist that has no acceptable target. He shakes it loose. None of this is unexpected; none of this is unfamiliar. He has learned the same lessons as she, received the same brand of correction.

And yet.

“On your feet is how I want you. Get _up_.”

She complies, and her stance is acceptable in form, although she cannot hold it without swaying very slightly. He steadies her, flesh hand gripping her firmly by the shoulder. His fingertips dig into lean muscle hard enough to bruise, but she keeps her eyes straight ahead, locked on nothing.

“Status report,” he demands.

“Operational.”

His grip eases fractionally, and he turns her to face him. Leans in close, so that he can feel her hot, rancid breath against his face. “Damn right, you are,” he says, vehement, very quiet. “Don’t you ever lie down and take what’s coming, unless it’s your trap and you’ve set it perfectly. Otherwise, you stand up. You stay focused. You fight, until you can’t.”

She looks terribly young as she struggles to quell the trembling of her chin. He gives her a moment to get it under control, because he is too soft and too lenient and is yet again failing her.

“Understood, Soldier,” she says. The response comes out crisp and sure. When she meets his gaze, it is to assess his expression with cool, detached regard.

She has always been quick to pull on whatever mask suits a situation best, and she wears this one with no less skill than any other. The soldier’s jaw clenches; he can feel the tiny hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, watching this subtlest of performances.

From his tactical pants, he pulls a small cloth. It is stained with gun oil and carbon filings, a buffer he uses for an array of firearms. He presses it into her palm now.

A pittance. An insult, even. She frowns as she looks down at it.

“Clean yourself up,” he says, “and then leave it here. All of it. We’ve got work to do. Get dressed.”

He picks up the stack of folded gray clothes left outside the cell and passes them to her before exiting. Perhaps he should observe her final moments in confinement, enforce correct comportment and efficiency as she wipes away foulness and reclothes herself. But the small infraction of keeping his back turned is well worth the hell he’ll pay later, if it spares her one last moment of indignity.


End file.
